The Prelude. William Wordsworth

Until maturer seasons called them forth

       To impregnate and to elevate the mind.

       ​—And if the vulgar joy by its own weight

       Wearied itself out of the memory,

       The scenes which were a witness of that joy

       Remained in their substantial lineaments

       Depicted on the brain, and to the eye

       Were visible, a daily sight; and thus

       By the impressive discipline of fear,

       By pleasure and repeated happiness,

       So frequently repeated, and by force

       Of obscure feelings representative

       Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright,

       So beautiful, so majestic in themselves,

       Though yet the day was distant, did become

       Habitually dear, and all their forms

       And changeful colours by invisible links

       Were fastened to the affections.

      I began

       My story early—not misled, I trust,

       By an infirmity of love for days

       Disowned by memory—ere the breath of spring

       Planting my snowdrops among winter snows:

       Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend! so prompt

       In sympathy, that I have lengthened out

       With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale.

       ​Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might fetch

       Invigorating thoughts from former years;

       Might fix the wavering balance of my mind,

       And haply meet reproaches too, whose power

       May spur me on, in manhood now mature,

       To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes

       Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught

       To understand myself, nor thou to know

       With better knowledge how the heart was framed

       Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee

       Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit

       Those recollected hours that have the charm

       Of visionary things, those lovely forms

       And sweet sensations that throw back our life,

       And almost make remotest infancy

       A visible scene, on which the sun is shining?

      One end at least hath been attained; my mind

       Hath been revived, and if this genial mood

       Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down

       Through later years the story of my life.

       The road lies plain before me;—'tis a theme

       Single and of determined bounds; and hence

       I choose it rather at this time, than work

       ​Of ampler or more varied argument,

       Where I might be discomfited and lost:

       And certain hopes are with me, that to thee

       This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend!

      ​

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      SCHOOL-TIME.—(Continued)

       Table of Contents

      BOOK SECOND.

       Table of Contents

      SCHOOL-TIME.—(Continued.)

      Thus far, Friend! have we, though leaving much

       Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace

       The simple ways in which my childhood walked;

       Those chiefly that first led me to the love

       Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet

       Was in its birth, sustained as might befal

       By nourishment that came unsought; for still

       From week to week, from month to month, we lived

       A round of tumult. Duly were our games

       Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed:

       No chair remained before the doors; the bench

       And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep

       The labourer, and the old man who had sate

       A later lingerer; yet the revelry

       Continued and the loud uproar: at last,

       ​When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars

       Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went,

       Feverish with weary joints and beating minds.

       Ah! is there one who ever has been young,

       Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride

       Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem?

       One is there, though the wisest and the best

       Of all mankind, who covets not at times

       Union that cannot be;—who would not give,

       If so he might, to duty and to truth

       The eagerness of infantine desire?

       A tranquillising spirit presses now

       On my corporeal frame, so wide appears

       The vacancy between me and those days

       Which yet have such self-presence in my mind,

       That, musing on them, often do I seem

       Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself

       And of some other Being. A rude mass

       Of native rock, left midway in the square

       Of our small market village, was the goal

       Or centre of these sports; and when, returned

       After long absence, thither I repaired,

       Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place

       A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground

       That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream,

       ​And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I know

       That more than one of you will think with me

       Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame

       From whom the stone was named, who there had sate,

       And watched her table with its huckster's wares

       Assiduous, through the length of sixty years.

      We ran a boisterous course; the year span round

       With giddy motion. But the time approached

       That brought with it a regular desire

       For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms

       Of Nature were collaterally attached

       To every scheme of holiday delight

       And every boyish sport, less grateful else

       And languidly pursued.

      When